


(rumor has it)

by Idday



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Past Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Kent Parson may or may not be the only person in the world who knows what happened to Zimmermann that night before the draft.Depending on who’s telling the story, that includes  Zimmermann....(Of course, that’s just a rumor.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings are... for basic hockey culture and all that includes (toxic masculinity, referenced/implied homophobia, misogynistic language, etc.) This isn't a soft story but hopefully it's not too mean... (not that I would know what 'realistic' is in the NHL but somewhere along those lines). Language like woah and canon-typical drug refs.
> 
> All hockey players referenced here are fictional, but I'm unoriginal so if the names sound familiar, they're not meant to be.

All the WAGs have this thing about Kent Parson.

Used to be because he was young and a little undersized and had these big eyes and this sad story and was generally the kind of kid who made girls like that want to wrap him up in a blanket and pet his intentionally messy hair.

Now, it’s mostly because he’s a charming motherfucker and when they pester him to bring his own girl around he says things like, “you ladies are all I need,” and they giggle at that.

That line only works if a guy looks like Kent Parson, turns out. Jonesy tried it once and got laughed off the yacht.

The Vegas WAGs fall for it every time.

Too bad the reason Kent Parson doesn’t bring his girl around is because he’s busy fucking their husbands.

…

(Of course, that’s just a rumor.)

…

Kent Parson will suck a guy’s dick and then smile at his wife and ask after the kids like nothing’s wrong.

This is generally agreed to be a pretty beauty move. A lot of guys will do one or the other, but very rarely both.

…

Kent Parson may or may not be the only person in the world who knows what happened to Zimmermann that night before the draft.

Depending on who’s telling the story, that includes  Zimmermann.

…

Even OC has a Parson story, and OC once didn’t give his own brother a hug because it was too gay.

(Hey, it was back in Juniors. Nobody knew any better then.)

It was at this bar in Nashville, or that’s how Gio tells it, because OC never will. One thing about Gio, he can gossip with the fucking best of them, but he rarely lies—besides that thing with Hartsy and the German model, at least, because that was definitely a lie.

Point is, OC had, like, five vodka waters (or seven, or nine) and told Kent Parson that he jerked off to his GWG the night before, and Parson fucking winked at him and said, “you wanna see a live show sometime, just let me know.”

And then, as Gio tells it, OC fucking left with the kid and wasn’t seen until morning.

So. Guys know what happened, after that.

…

Jack Zimmermann wasn’t ready for a city like Vegas.

As it turns out, Vegas wasn’t ready for a kid like Kent Parson.

…

Guys know about Kent Parson.

Like, the kid’s in Montreal for a best-on-best and Singer’s sucking on the finger of his glove and Parson looks over and goes, “do you fellate all your equipment, or are we just lucky?”

And Singer—at least according to Brownie, who heard the story from Grog—says, “fel—wait, what’s that mean?”

(Not the sharpest skate on the ice, that kid. Beauty of a backcheck, though.)

So Parson smirks at the kid and says, “you want a demonstration?”

So, yeah. Guys know about Kent Parson.

…

Kent Parson was Zimmermann’s boy, back in the day.

No, not teammate. Guys have a hundred, a thousand of those in their lifetimes, and an easy dozen of those will be their bros.

No. They were boys, and that means something more.

That’s what the guys say, if they’re asked. Used to be this nasty rumor going around, that it was Parson who gave him the shit that made Zimmermann O.D. Like, sabotage, or some shit.

But that’s not what happened, or at least, that’s what Cally says. “They were boys,” he says, “you would never do that to your boy,” and that’s that.

…

(Thing is, boys usually just means boys, but sometimes means _boys._

With these two, it was the latter.

Or at least. That’s the rumor. There were a lot of rumors, about Parson and Zimmermann. Still are.)

…

Kent Parson can party with the best of them, or at least, that’s the rumor.

Bouncers in Vegas—and in New York, and Toronto, and Chicago, and Boston, and on and on and on—they all know his name, and so do all the girls.

For a guy who sucks so much cock, Parson sure has a way with the ladies. He’ll chat them up and spin them into the arms of some dude who’s willing to take his leftovers, and he’ll go home with whoever’s left who isn’t willing to take his leftovers.

“You go out with Parson,” Brownie always says, “and you’ll get your dick wet for sure. One way or another.”

…

Kent Parson was almost late for the last game of the Sochi Olympics because he woke up with a Russian supermodel in his bed.

Went down on her for an hour the night before, or so the story goes, and she rode him so good in thanks that he forgot to set a fucking alarm.

But no, JT down in Houston says that there were two girls and they were both hookers and he didn’t touch either of them, just watched them go at it and drank champagne for their troubles.

“Bad. Ass.” JT says, and guys take his word for it.

Hey. Parson won gold.

…

Here’s something to understand: there are some stone-cold homophobes in this league, and make no mistake about it. There are more guys who just don’t understand. A few that just don’t care.

Here’s something else to understand: it’s a small fucking league, and everybody has a secret, and everybody knows just what those secrets are.

Nobody’s gonna spill shit, no matter what it is, because who knows how those dominoes could fall. That’s just the way things are.

So, yeah. Parson’s safe.

Mutually fucking assured destruction, baby.

…

Kent Parson drove down to some fucking no-name school in the middle of fucking nowhere the year Zimmermann went to free agency and offered him five mil to forget about the NHL for good.

That’s the rumor.

Or: “nah,” Scotty says, “it was a Rolex and he wanted Zimmermann for Vegas.”

Or: he didn’t talk to Zimmermann at all, just fucked a lax bro in the back seat of his Spyder.

(Or: “It was a lax girl, and she did the fucking, if you know what I mean.”)

…

Kent Parson will never start a fight, but he’ll sure as hell finish one.

At least, that’s the rumor.

Smitty was with him in Prague when they got jumped at a bar—“no fucking reason,” Smitty says, “and we don’t speak a word of fucking Czech so we can’t fucking ask”—and apparently Parson put this big Czech guy straight through a plate glass window.

He got out of jail in the morning because bail was his autograph, and then he fucking went and won Worlds.

…

If a dude’s gonna get a roadie pass or a tourney pass from his girl, he’s gonna get it for Kent Parson.

He doesn’t have to understand the lifestyle to know that the kid’s got a fucking mouth on him, and that it’s good for more than one thing.

…

Kent Parson is a true fucking bro, and that’s not a rumor. That’s just the way things are.

…

(Kent Parson is a true fucking dick, and that’s not a rumor, either. Just the way things are.)

…

Thing is, a lot of guys will suck dick given the right circumstance and the right amount of alcohol, and nobody will blink twice, long as they bring a girl around now and then.

Thing is, Parson’s never brought a girl around.

…

First time Matty Bow went to an All-Star game, he was the future of the league, best player in the world, and he was something like twelve years old.

(Okay, eighteen and-a-half. Feels like twelve, to most guys.)

Matty Bow goes out and just shatters this accuracy record, and then it’s Parson’s turn and he gets the way he does sometimes, super intense, even though he’s normally so chill that guys forget sometimes how hard he’s worked to lift two Stanley Cups.

Or, not forget. Misremember, maybe.

(Hey, some shit when down when he had the Cup, that first year, or at least, that’s the rumor.

“Did lines off it,” Backey swears up and down, and Cabo always, always rolls his eyes at that.

“It’s fucking round, dude, how would you? Jerked off on it, though. Or maybe with it? Can’t quite remember.”

And then Backey says, “fuck’s wrong with that, dude, eh? Swear to God when I get it, I’m gonna—or at least have my wife—”

“It’s Lord Stanley,” Cabo says gravely. “Gotta show it some respect.”)

Anyway, Parson crushes the record that’s, like, three seconds old, and kinda smiles, like, ‘I’m not washed up yet, kid.’

But he took Bower with him to the bar that night, or so Marty says, and he would know because he was there.  

Pretty fucking cute, too, the way he tells it, because Bower’s new enough to be awed and Parson’s a nice looking kid and he’s got this way, like—he’ll flirt with the penalty timekeeper and his lineys and some guy’s fucking wife and nobody cares, really, because he’s not a threat anyway and he’s just got… this way.

So Bower keeps taking sips of Parson’s drink because he’s underage and he gets all tipsy and flushed and ends up half in Parson’s lap and says, “you’re my favorite player.”

And then, (“swear to God, this kid has the biggest fucking crush,” Marty says) and then Parson smiles and says, “thanks, baby,” but sweetly, not in a mean way, and kisses Bower on his pink cheek.

Nothing happens, and nobody really thinks… Parson’s not _that_ type of guy and Bower’s only eighteen and is in puppy love at best, but it makes Bower, like, fucking incandescent with joy and that’s what kind of sticks with guys.

And Parson won’t let Marty or the other guys chirp Bower for it, either, or at least not too much, and he keeps the kid all tucked up under his arm and puts him to bed at the end of the night.

That’s the way, with Kent Parson. He kind of makes guys feel like they matter, and like he cares, and like when he calls them ‘baby’ that he’s not laughing at them.

Like he means it.

That’s his way.

…

The thing about Kent Parson is, guys _know_ about him, but he keeps his eyes to himself in the room and knows his shit on the ice and that’s more than can be said for some of the guys with wives.

So he’s a pretty decent dude, all around.

…

Kent Parson goes down all sweet and easy, off the ice.

At least, that’s the rumor. Not like anybody’s going to admit to seeing him on his knees.

…

Kent Parson has this absolute gaggle of rookies who follow him around, and it’s half because he has eighty-point seasons and half because he smiles at all the right girls.

(He was a pretty sweet rookie, too, if the stories are to be believed, and Woody let Parson live in his house for a year and will say even now, “yeah, Parser’s a good kid.”)

Half the guys in the league want to be Kent Parson or fuck Kent Parson (or fuck up Kent Parson) and sometimes both.

Guys play their cards right, they might get their wish.

…

(Kent Parson, Sammy says once, when he’s a little bit crossfaded, has the fucking nicest eyes.

Also, freckles.

Also, he can deepthroat.

Everyone agrees that these are all good things.)

…

Kent Parson, Sammy says once, stone cold sober, needs to stop fucking his teammates, and maybe needs to stop earning his ‘C’ on his hands and knees.

…

Kent Parson takes this girl to the NHL Awards once, an absolute fucking rocket, too.

Turns out, she’s his sister, and afterwards Clay LaForge swears that Parson jacked him off in the men’s anyway.

(“Best I ever had,” LaForge says, and everyone agrees that it’s more embarrassing for him than for Parson, really.)

…

Rumor has it, when Parson and Zimmermann meet on NHL ice, someone’s gonna get laid the fuck out.

Nobody knows Zimmermann, except how everybody knows his daddy and his issues and his long fucking mysterious absence.

Everybody fucking knows Kent Parson.

(Kent Parson will always finish a fight, and Kent Parson does coke off his Stanley Cups, and Kent Parson will never, never tell a guy’s wife if he cries after he comes on Parson’s face.

Hey, guys know all about Kent Parson. He’s one of them, now. He’s motherfucking earned that.)

…

Never, never bet against Kent Parson.

That’s not a rumor, kid.

That’s just common fucking sense.

**Author's Note:**

> (will I ever stop naming Kent-themed pieces after Adele songs?
> 
> ........... no)
> 
> Drop me a line!


End file.
